(written at about 12pm – posted at about 9:30pm)
Gosh. I am sitting in a wonderful little cafe called “Pats Cafe” – possibly run by someone called Pat. And it’s marvelous – it’s quiet, out of the way, has wireless and the server just gave me a coffee that’s bigger than my head with about 3 inches of foam on it. And that, is exactly what I needed.
Last night was my first Saturday night in the country and was asked out to a LGBT Art Show by a very nice but slightly creepy woman who reminded me of the ‘Number One Fan’ in Stephen Kings Horror – Misery. I made a poor excuse, rambled some nonsense, thought about going -decided against it – and fled the hostel with the intention of going to Sam Wu (?) a small, cheap and cheerful chinese restaurant up on Washington in Chinatown… then The Top Of The Mark – a ritzy historic bar on the 19th floor of the intercontinental hotel at the very top of Nob Hill.
And to do all off this I decided to wear my 4 inch heels – this is an important part of the story, so please keep that in mind. (as a side story i believe I have alienated myself from the majority of hostelers as they all seem to wear flannelette and no makeup – and leaving a hostel with blow dried hair, makeup and heels doesn’t seem to fit with the vibe).. anyway…
Off I trot, about 7:30pm, to Union Square, passing a pretty good blues busking band with a guy who looked a lot like Jimmi Hendrix – I went to Borders to purchase a Truman Capote book – and began the trek up hill to Chinatown.
There are, apparently, many ways to get around the city on foot, and avoiding the enormous hills – but I for some reason managed to pick EVERY street that had at the very least a gradient of 30 degrees. I took a round about way to Chinatown – and by the time I got there, my little hoofs were on fire and I was questioning my choice of destination and footwear – and to be honest, was quite grumpy (and hungry).
I realised about 3 blocks into Chinatown that in fact I hate Chinese food – never ever eat it at home – and that no doubt if I did go there it would be a) smelly, b) noisy and c) full of MSG. And i would awake the next day with hives, alopecia, manic depression, swollen eyes and herpes as a side effect. So I decided to turn around and head to Uncle Vitos for a pizza and glass of red wine.
To GET to Uncle Vitos, I had to go up 4 more practically vertical blocks, in my stupidly high heels (all the time ruminating about the fact that I haven’t seen any women in SFO in heels higher than about 1.5 inches.. and there was a good reason for this!)
- side note: 2 actually.
I fell in the door, got my little ‘table for one’ and ate like a madwoman whist devouring 4 short Capote stories (which traumatised me thoroughly) and being ogled by the waiter. That actually worked out fine for me as he said all the wine was from him – earning him a handsome tip, and me a cheaper bill.
Bloated and tottering by this point I decided to get to the bar up the road – and have a martini.
I walked up a couple of blocks to Mason Street and checked my map, earning me a rap on the window of a bottle-shop with some guy shouting out the door “are you lost!?” – I announced that in fact I was not, and was planning on turning right at the corner and going up two blocks to the bar.. “Is there by any chance a rather large hill around the corner?” .. he looked at me and said.. “Oh yes – and part of the joy of working here is watching the drunk women coming down the hill after a big night out.”
Undaunted I turned the corner.
I wish that the photos i took could show you truly how high that mofo was.. but it was high. It was VERY VERY high.. and I took it slowly as by this time not only my feet were hurting, but my thighs were aching quite impressively too.
The bar itself was very ritzy. 360° view and a bar list that included 100 varieties of Martini. I was shown (in my humble flying-solo got-no-friends way) to the bar where I ordered a Martini and watched the band. Who were very loud and funky – but at the same time, cheesy as hell. Both vocalists had enomous voices which aptly matched the size of their asses – but I’ll admit they were entertaining though very far off being enchanting.
Within a very short amount of time – possibly a song and a half – I was befriended at that bar, by Rick and Mary Ann – bless them – who were very kind to talk to me, as I was at the risk of becoming incredibly bored with a garnish of lonliness on the top (I mean – what kind of city lets a gal walk around bars by herself without ANY man coming up and saying hello.. I’ll get to that later). Rick and Mary Ann (who hails from Lexington Kentucky) live in San Diego and have three children and love to dance. And Rick is absolutely Australian obsessed. He loves Australians – loves the language, the accent and the humour. And feels its his god given duty to buy Australians drinks whenever he comes across them. I advised him not to go to Australia as that could send the man broke – but he kindly bought me many martinis and sat with me all night chatting about life, humans, Australia, America, food and music. And also about his son who is 26 and pursuing a love life revolving around ‘Cougar Hunting’ much to his mothers horror – dunno what a cougar is? Look it up on Google.
Rick wanted to know why I wasn’t married (GREAT TOPIC) and then after the bar closed at 12:30am (i am starting to dislike this town) escorted me down the hill a) because I was whining about how high it was and he wanted to see if I’d fall on my ass going down it in my inappropriate shoes and b) because he had another great bar to take me to downtown. Rick actually slipped over on his ass on the way down – and I would like to mention for the record that I remained unscathed.
The bar that he took me to was in Union Square, and I must say that the initial impression I got was olfactory.. the odor in particular would be best described as fresh puke. Vivid, wet and rancid. The bar itself was full of ugly people, without any creative fashion sense to rescue them from their visually unappealing beige visages, and a 3 piece band who were doing their best to look like Kenny Rogers (and failing) and to sound like Jefferson Airplane (and failing). They weren’t on a stage, they were behind a bar with only the top quarter of their bodies visible – and the American bogans were dancing their beer sodden, vomit stinky mating dances at each other with much drunken gusto.
Rick advised that he’d brought me some “real Americana”, and not to believe that The Top Of The Mark was a proper American bar. Nevertheless I told him that I had no intention of shlepping it with the great unwashed in some rat pit whether it was in San Francisco or Melbourne – but we did have a good laugh as I sipped my vodka whilst holding my breath so to avoid inhaling any of the chunder odour (and having my handbag on my lap as the floor was a little squelchy underfoot).
I went back to the hostel after this, crept in the room about 2am not to disturb my roommates (who I am beginning to find depressing) and passed out to the sounds of some other hosteller voraciously vomiting in the toilet next door. It was a very barf orientated evening for me.
- Side note, I think SFO is not even NY’s toenail clipping. It’s quaint sure, and has some interesting little curio shops and whatnot – the bridge is cool too – but it is totally boring. I’m sick of overweight (read – obese) hetero-phobic righteous ovulating hairy lesbians and their attitude problems and i’m sick of the utterly unfriendly travelers in the hostel. I’m also pretty sick of the generally unfriendly people in this town – the most chatty people I’ve met are the beggars – so much so that I’ve actually started tipping them just for saying hello. Then again – maybe if I grew a beard and wore $2 singlets and ripped jeans I’d be having a better time with more people to talk to. Thank GOD for 2 jazz gigs tmrw & Tues night – and thank GOD for Chicago.
